Ink Flamingos

Chapter 11

I instinctively looked out the glass door. “You saw Harry?” Jeff Coleman had powers of detection I hadn’t been aware of, because I certainly hadn’t seen him.

“He came around the corner, spotted me, and started back in the other direction,” Jeff said.

So maybe he didn’t know about Jeff, after all.

Jeff cocked his head at me again. “Ready to go? Maybe we can catch up with him, find out what his problem is.”

I grabbed my bag off the front desk, and we scooted out the door. I locked it, Jeff pulled down the gate for me, and we turned left, the direction Harry had run in, according to Jeff. I couldn’t see Harry anywhere, though, so I took one of the footbridges two steps at a time and stood at the top, scanning the canal and the walkway up ahead. I spotted Harry skirting around a couple of last-minute shoppers. I bounded back down the steps and grabbed Jeff’s hand, pulling him along with me.

“He’s up ahead,” I said, then realized I was holding Jeff Coleman’s hand and instantly dropped it.

Despite having shorter legs than me, Jeff kept up easily beside me, our strides in sync. It seemed that Harry didn’t think we’d come after him, because he’d slowed down and we weren’t that far behind him when he pushed open the door to the outside.

The door swung halfway shut by the time we reached it, but Jeff shoved it open farther and we went out into the night.

It was a crisp February night, the lights on the Strip making it seem almost like twilight.

We were right behind Harry now.

“Harry,” I called out.

He stopped and whirled around, sheer shock crossing his face, his mouth open in a wide “O.” He shut it again, clearly trying to get his bearings.

“Brett,” he said flatly as his eyes slid over to Jeff. “Jeff.”

“Why’d you take off?” I asked, standing in front of him now, my hands on my hips. “I thought we had a date.” So maybe I had been preparing to cancel that date, but he didn’t have to know that right now.

“I, um, well…” His eyes flicked from Jeff to me and back to Jeff. “I saw him in your shop. I figured three’s a crowd.”

“Three’s a-” I stopped, looking at Jeff, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything, but he was looking at me, as if I was supposed to take care of this on my own. Okay, fine. “Harry, Jeff and I are friends. He just stopped by. He does that sometimes, like you stop by the shop. He did tell me, though, that you’ve been a little creative with your background.”

Harry cast his eyes to the sidewalk and shifted from one foot to the other. “I thought you’d kick me out if I told you.”

“Damn straight she would.” Wouldn’t you know Jeff would decide to speak up now. “What’s your angle here, Desmond?”

Nice to know I wasn’t the only one he called by their last name, but it was a little disconcerting knowing that he didn’t like Harry. Jeff and I hadn’t liked each other in the beginning. Was this little quirk of his about my name a leftover from that time?

Harry finally stopped moving and straightened himself up. “No angle, Coleman.”

Or maybe it was a guy thing.

“Brett and I had a date,” Harry continued. “We were going over to Cleopatra’s Barge to hear someone sing.”

Jeff looked at me, his eyebrows high in his forehead, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Music, Kavanaugh? Really?”

Jeff knew I was tone-deaf.

“So happens that Dee Carmichael’s replacement in the Flamingos is singing tonight,” I explained.

The smile came out full force. “So you were taking Harry along while you did your sleuthing? I’m hurt, Kavanaugh, that you didn’t ask me instead.”

I felt my face flush and hoped that because it was dark, or semidark, he wouldn’t notice. “Harry knows Sherman Potter, the band’s manager. He invited us.”

Jeff was nodding. “Okay, then what are we waiting for? Let’s take a walk.”

“Not so fast,” I said. “My brother told me to stay away.”

“So when did that stop you before?”

Okay, so it hadn’t ever stopped me before. Except this time Tim was going to be there, and I wouldn’t be able to get away with it. I said as much.

“And I was going to tell Harry, here, that I couldn’t go after all,” I said, trying to look apologetic when Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“You don’t actually have to go in, you know,” Jeff said.

“What do you mean?’

Harry grinned. He knew what Jeff meant. “Brett, you can just walk through to the casino and hear the music.”

“But wasn’t the idea of this to talk to Sherman Potter, who will actually be in the nightclub?” I asked. “It sort of defeats the purpose.”

“Your brother doesn’t know me,” Harry said softly.

No, he didn’t.

Jeff was nodding, and even though he had warned me off Harry, he said, “That’s right. Harry can go in. We’ll hang out outside, and he can see what he can find out about this Ainsley.”

Harry looked like he wanted to do anything except be the third wheel.

“You owe me, Desmond,” Jeff said in a low, threatening tone that would’ve worried me if I were on the receiving end of it.

Harry pursed his lips and gave a short nod. “All right, I’m in. But only for Brett.”

“Fair enough,” Jeff said.

They both looked at me expectantly, until I finally shrugged and said, “Okay. Fine. But if I see Tim there, I have no idea how I’ll be able to explain.”

Neither Jeff nor Harry seemed to care. We fell into step along the sidewalk, sidestepping people carrying two-foot-long, thin glass containers with cocktails in them, college kids with the names of their schools blazoned across their T-shirts, and girls with low-cut jeans and high-cut tops to show off their belly rings and tattoos.

Which reminded me of something I wanted to ask Harry.

“So you hang out at my shop, and you worked for Jeff, but I’m wondering why you don’t have any tattoos.” Harry wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts every day, but I hadn’t seen any sign of any ink. Of course he could have one in as private a place as Ainsley had her rose, and it was none of my business. But because it was my business, I couldn’t help but ask.

Harry gave a nervous look at Jeff before answering. “Not into it, I guess.”

There was more to this than he was saying, but I didn’t press the issue. Not everyone wants a tattoo; I can live with that. Enough people did want tattoos, though, to keep me in business, to keep me fairly comfortable financially, as well as my staff. Even in hard economic times.

It always surprised me that I’d get someone in my shop who had lost a job and was paying me from an unemployment check. While the businesswoman in me was happy to have the client, the woman in me wanted to tell them to keep their money and come back when times were better, when they’d found a job, when a tattoo wasn’t going to take food or rent money out of their pocket.

Jeff and I had had this conversation; he tended to think we shouldn’t get emotionally involved in it. If someone were out of work and down on his luck, maybe getting a tattoo would give him a little more confidence. Jeff liked to think of it as his good deed.

We dealt with it in different ways, but when it came down to it, I did the tattoo, too.

It was a little bit of a walk down to Caesars, but it was a nice night and we walked in companionable silence. We crossed the Strip and saw the fountains at the Bellagio start to dance. Part of me wanted to join the crowds that had gathered, cameras on tripods, to watch. I still worried that Tim would see me and I’d catch hell from him.

We reached Caesars and made our way through the Forum shops. It was as surreal as the Venetian as we passed the Trevi Fountain, complete with a statue of Zeus. The “sky” had darkened overhead, and I spotted a kiosk selling brightly colored scarves. Again I was distracted and wanted to browse.

We heard the music as we got closer, but it was a familiar tune sung by deep voices.

“Beatles cover band?” Jeff asked, frowning as we approached Cleopatra’s Barge.

I had moved ahead of him a little and turned toward him when he spoke.

And slammed right into someone.

I turned back, my heart pounding when I saw who it was.

Tim.